Dear Ayah,
I have so much to tell you, but I want to start by saying I wish you were here. Seven years may have passed, but the ache of your absence remains as palpable as ever. So much has changed: I’m about to graduate, Atha is in college, and Zia is navigating high school. But despite all these changes, one thing remains unchanged: you’re still not here beside us.
The memory of that December day in 2016 continues to haunt me, Yah. I still vividly remember how I walked home, lost in my thoughts, unaware that the yellow flags lining the block were yours. It was as if life had taken a chapter from the imaginary scenarios my Islamic teacher once shared, a stark reminder of the fragility of our existence. The stories once shared to emphasize the importance of cherishing our loved ones became a jarring reality.
Ayah, I defended my thesis yesterday. Would you be proud of me? I wished you could witness this moment, hear about the hard work, the late nights, and the dedication poured into every word. I thought about how you never even had the chance to see me finally step into one of the top universities in the country. Your joy would have been boundless. Yet, I know you wouldn’t have been surprised, given how the belief you’ve always had in me.
I often think about the conversations we would have had, the shared laughter, and the pride in your eyes. Even now, I like to imagine that you’re still here; I sense your presence in the most unexpected ways. I catch glimpses of you when I look in the mirror, as people remark on the resemblance between us. Or, every time I eat a dish of rice and omelette, once your favorite. In a way, it feels like a tribute to you — a way of keeping your memory alive through something we both cherished.
I hope you know that your influence echoes in my mannerisms, in the values I hold dear, and in the way I navigate the world. Your legacy lives on through me. Ayah, I carry you within me, a living tribute to the impact you’ve had on my life.
In a movie I recently watched, “Jatuh Cinta Seperti di Film-Film,” a line resonated deeply: “Saat berduka itu harusnya waktu berhenti, padahal kita lagi gak mau jalan. Dipaksa menerima fakta bahwa waktu gak pernah nungguin kita”. Yah, little did you know, I have never stopped grieving. There are moments when I thought I was alright, yet tears still find their way when I gaze at the pictures of you adorning the walls. It hasn’t been easy. But, I hope the fact that I strive to find better ways to cope would comfort you.
Ayah, I’ve grown in many ways that might surprise you. I’ve navigated life’s highs and lows — loving deeply, enduring heartbreaks, and weathering betrayals. I wish I could share these chapters with you, but instead, I pour my heart into this letter, knowing you won’t read it. It’s baffling to think that the Dhenna who was once daddy’s little girl has weathered these storms without you by her side.
“Now you’re free from pain,” I remind myself each time I long for your presence. I recall how you fought against cancer, facing it with courage until you eventually passed away. Witnessing you in pain was something I couldn’t bear, and remembering your freedom from it brings me peace.
At times, I feel like I’m the only one still navigating the aftermath of your passing. Yet, deep down, I know that many are grappling with their own journey of grief. If you were here, I would tell you every little bit of details. But for now, I feel like you’ve heard enough, and I’m finding it difficult to continue writing.
Ayah, I want you to know that I’m sorry. I wish I could have been the best daughter in the world for you. There were times I wish I could have done more, said more, been more for you. But in my imperfections, I’ve learned to appreciate the value of every moment we shared, every lesson you taught me, and the love you poured into my life.
I’ve carried this weight of regret for a long time, wishing I could turn back time. But, Ayah, I’ve also learned that life doesn’t come with a script; it’s an unpredictable journey, and we do the best we can with the short moments we’re given. I hope you knew, even in my shortcomings, how much I loved you and how much I cherished every memory we created together.
I’m sure you’re watching me up there, some way, somehow. Watching me as I stumble and find my way through life’s maze. I hope you’re proud of the person I’m becoming. There are moments when I feel your presence, as if you’re gently guiding me, nudging me in the right direction. It’s in those moments of uncertainty that I seek solace in the belief that you’re watching over me. It sure feels like a reassuring hand on my shoulder, a constant reminder that ’m not alone in this journey.
Enough about me, how about you? Have you reunited with Eyang Ti? Or, have you met any cool people up there? I hope you got your own story to share too, when we meet someday.
We will be together again, Yah. Insha Allah, in a better place, in a time when there are no more goodbyes.
Your not-so-little girl,
Adhenna Zakia.
